


if you're talking fire, then we speak the same language

by Zoadgo



Series: Kinktober 2018 [13]
Category: Mad Max Series (Movies), Mad Max: Fury Road
Genre: Canon Divergent, Creampie, F/M, Fighting, Fingering, Light Femdom, Riding, Semi-Public Sex, Unconventional Solutions for Insomnia, Violence, improvised gag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2019-08-01 12:53:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16284959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoadgo/pseuds/Zoadgo
Summary: A fight would do Toast good, one of the out and out scraps the warboys get into all the time over the tiniest things. It fills her mind, the concept of sweat and blood and struggle, her muscles tingling with unrealized urges. Another part of her body becomes interested as well, heat gathering between her legs in the way it rarely does, and Toast resolutely ignores that.





	if you're talking fire, then we speak the same language

**Author's Note:**

> [title song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H-07kKBZcZA)
> 
> Today's prompt called for **Gags**! This was actually one of the first prompts I finished for this month, and I think it's one of my better ones, too!
> 
> My beta [Etra](http://coldsaturn.tumblr.com) is absolutely incredible, she's been doing so much for me this month!
> 
> [tumblr](http://jonnmurphy.tumblr.com)

Toast can’t sleep, much as it pains her to admit that there’s anything she can’t do. But while her sisters slumber in various states of peace, she lays awake, attempting with all of her will not to pace. Capable had told her off for pacing the night before, curled up in the arms of her warboy who hadn’t woken up at all. Toast doesn’t want to upset any of the other women, even though the lack of sleep makes her already hesitant grip on her anger slip on frequent occasions. 

With a sharp sigh that she cannot restrain, Toast stands abruptly and stalks from the room. Screw laying there, a statue of anxiety. If she can’t pace and fret away her demons in that room, she’ll do so somewhere else in the Citadel. It’s safe enough, now that the warboys and pups recognize the Wives as their leaders, and if anyone should try to attack her, well… Toast grins and her knuckles itch at the thought of it.

A fight would do her good, one of the out and out scraps the warboys get into all the time over the tiniest things. It fills her mind, the concept of sweat and blood and struggle, her muscles tingling with unrealized urges. Another part of her body becomes interested as well, heat gathering between her legs in the way it rarely does, and Toast resolutely ignores that. 

No, she needs a fight, not a breeding. She’s pretty sure there’s no one left in the Citadel who could even breed successfully anyway, and she wouldn’t want to raise a kid if there were. Capable insists that there’s other good to be had from it, and the books they’d studied over the years of their captivity had indicated such, but Toast doubts it. She frowns deeply, annoyed at her own biology for even considering such a thing, and makes her way to the bowels of the tunnels where black thumbs butcher cars and make them something new.

Despite her vague hopes, no warboys jump her on the way there. Not even a pup, eager to earn some respect by breaking something soft like her. Not that she is soft, but appearances count for a lot around here. Toast sighs sharply as she walks among the black thumbs, completely ignored in favour of the engines that are their lives. They don’t even respond as she petulantly kicks some tools across the room, simply leaving it to a pup who might one day dream of joining their ranks to bring it back for them. And she can’t try to pick a fight with one of the pups; Toast may not have a mothering instinct to speak of, but she’s no monster.

Past the last of the hollowed out car carcasses, Toast picks up on a distant noise. Shouting and cheering, and beneath it something deeply interesting. Heavy sounds, thuds and smacks that bring fresh rounds of accolades. 

The sounds of fighting.

Toast wants to run to the fight, to see it happen, as she knows it likely won’t last long. But there are enough people around that she still holds herself aloof and dignified, so that won’t do. She simply clenches her fists and prays that she’ll get to see blood spilled, and perhaps spill some herself. Maybe she could intervene, throw herself into the fray in the guise of breaking it up.

She imagines cracking skulls and her heart races, thighs tingling where they rub together. It would be so deeply satisfying, just what she needs for a good night sleep. Because there’s something inside of her, curling hot and itchy around her guts, and she needs to let it out.

Toast rounds the corner just in time to see one of the larger warboys grab the head of the evident loser and slam it into the ground. The resounding crack causes Toast to jump despite herself, nausea rolling along with intrigue as the beaten warboy lays motionless on the ground. Possibly dead, hopefully just knocked out. Toast wonders if she should check his pulse, vaguely looking to see if he’s breathing, but her attention is diverted as the victor throws his head back with an animalistic shout.

He struts around the room, shouting and growling like a feral beast, and Toast can’t help the way it draws her in. She wants something of that, of the freedom as he thrusts a fist in the air. She longs for the way the more timid warboys flinch away from him, and for the way the red of blood mixes with the white of his paint. The heat between her legs intensifies as she studies him, and Toast is torn three ways; she wants to fight him, she wants to become him, and she wants to fuck him. She doesn’t know why she wants the last, but her mind is helpful to supply a few ideas. Hypotheticals, things she’d read or been told by Capable and the Dag, that don’t repulse her near as much as normal as she watches crimson drip from his split knuckles to stain the ground.

The smaller warboy moves with a groan, and the victor stalks over to him in a heartbeat. He flips him over, and Toast wonders if he’s going to kill him. Her mouth goes dry and her heart rate quickens, but she makes no move to interfere. She’s intrigued, desperately so, as she watches from the shadows. Firelight catches on the staples in the victor’s cheek, and she belatedly recognizes him. Slit - the lancer for Capable’s boy, and also one of the few warboys Toast has had the misfortune of interacting with. A colossal pain in the ass, as she recalls, and one who seems to quite enjoy solving all his problems with a little bit of violence or murder.

He grabs the other warboy’s neck and bares his teeth, crashing their forehead together with a grunted growl. The beaten one nods, shaken and weak, and Slit’s display of aggression immediately shifts with a laugh. He hefts his opponent to his feet, bellowing laughter the whole time. With that and a flimsy smile from the loser, the other warboys gathered break their ranks and flood forward, some to take care of the injured, and many to congratulate Slit with slaps and punches to any available skin they can reach. No few rub his head, and his paint turns pink as the evidence of his bloody fight gets rubbed into his skin.

Envy twists sharply within Toast, and she bites the inside of her cheek in frustration. Why does he get to be happy like that while being so violent? Her own sisters cringe at the idea of her killing those who would kill them; only Furiosa seems to support her in her training with the old rifles they saved. If she were to get in a fight, she’d get a lecture, not a pat on the back. It itches inside of her, as the crowd begins to thin, so Toast decides to do something about it.

“Warboy!” She calls out the title imperiously as she strides into the room, wearing her authority like a mantle. The remaining boys move out of her way as she crosses over to Slit, deferential as they are trained to be. Slit isn’t cowed by her nature or office, however, and when she stops three paces shy of him, he takes two forward, crowding into her space.

Okay, so he’s tall. And terrifyingly muscular. And smells of sweat and blood and the dusty tang of their paint, which is not nearly as bad of a smell as Toast had thought it would be. 

“Breeder,” Slit sneers, bending to force his face into her personal space. Toast doesn’t give an inch, simply crosses her arms over her chest.

“That’s not our title anymore.” She corrects him, and Slit snorts.

“Slip of the tongue,” he waves away his words, twisting his tongue against his lower lip in illustration of the phrase, and Toast shudders. She wishes she could say it was entirely in revulsion, but she can’t deny the pulse of desire it sends to her core.

This is not good. She wants a fight, not whatever promises that tongue and those muscles just inches away from her may hold.

“Maybe I’ll take you to task for that, just the same. Warboy like you should know to hold his tongue, keep to his place.” Toast jabs a finger into the middle of his chest and watches something dark flicker in his eyes. Yes, perfect, she mentally urges him to take a swing at her.

But as quick as she saw it, it’s gone, and Slit raises his hands in mock surrender, taking a step back. That stupid sneer is still on his features, looking down on her, clearly not seeing any sort of a threat from her. It pisses her right the hell off.

“What, big bad warboy like you is scared of a tiny little breeder?” Toast is vaguely aware of the other warboys slipping away as she taunts Slit, likely afraid of the consequences if they bear witness to one of their own striking a Wife. 

“Thought you weren’t a breeder,” Slit taunts right back, not rising to the bait at all. He rolls a shoulder and inspects his knuckles idly before meeting Toast’s gaze and narrowing his eyes, “And I’m no traitoring fool.”

If Slit, the towering symbol of anger and poor impulse control he is, won’t fight her, Toast supposes she has no chance at getting the brawl she wants tonight. But, well, there is the other thing she wants, evidence of it dampening the bindings below her waist. And Slit isn’t afraid of her, Toast doubts he would back down if she made it a challenge.

“Don’t think you’d be able to tell a breeder from an exhaust pipe.” Toast scoffs a laugh, turning away and idly shrugging a shoulder. “You warboys always talk and talk about breeding, but I bet you’re all as soft in the head as Nux was in the start. Like a pup on a war rig, you wouldn’t even know where to start, would you?”

Now _that_ goad, Slit does react to. He snarls behind her, and it takes all of Toasts willpower not to turn around. She hears his heavy footsteps, and she can feel the heat radiating off of him when he stops right behind her. His breath falls hot as fresh exhaust, scalding her neck and shoulder. He doesn’t speak, though, and she can imagine the restraint he’s displaying right now, trying not to touch her, to say something he might get punished for.

She wants to break that restraint.

“What a shame,” Toast sighs theatrically and moves to walk away. She wouldn’t have, actually; if he’d let her go, she’s certain she would have made it no more than ten paces before she turned around and pounced on him.

But he doesn’t let her go. His bloodstained hand grabs her wrist, skin impossibly hot and grip incredibly strong, and he spins her to face him. Toast only has time to form half of a surprised gasp before he descends upon her, stealing the air from her lungs with a devouring kiss. It’s sloppy, all teeth and scar tissue and long, hot licks of his tongue, but it stokes that fire inside of Toast all the same. She presses into it, digs her fingers into his chest and bites his lower lip hard enough that he growls.

Toast wrenches away from him with a gasp, holding Slit back by virtue of wrapping her free hand around his throat and squeezing. She doesn’t think she could do any actual damage, but the implication is enough to buy her time to catch her breath. Somehow, the kiss had eased the itch inside of her, yet inspired a whole new kind of discomfort. She aches, deep inside and in a way that she instinctively knows how to fix.

“Over there,” Toast commands with a jerk of her chin, indicating a ledge in the wall at roughly the right height for Slit to sit on. He bares his teeth at her, not moving an inch, and Toast releases his throat to shove him square in the middle of his chest. “Over there, now, or I leave and tell Furiosa you attacked me.”

“You wouldn’t.” Slit narrows his eyes, and he’s right, but he doesn’t need to know that. Toast simply shrugs, and apparently the threat is enough for her to get her way, because he crosses the room to the indicated seat. He doesn’t release her, however, and Toast takes some small amount of offense at being dragged behind him like a toy.

When he sits, Slit pulls Toast into his lap, and much as she resents being pushed around, it allows her to grind her hips down on him and finally feel some sort of relief for that ache. She can feel him through the heavy canvas of his pants, and she has an idea that he’s larger than anything she’s experienced before. Certainly more than her own fingers, which she has turned to a time or two, and she doesn’t allow herself to think of any other experiences.

“Ha, a pretty little breeder all of my own, never thought I’d get something as shine as this.” Slit licks his lips, a vile, vulgar act that Toast curls her lip at even as it sends desire hot to her belly. He drops her wrist finally in order to grab her hips, grinding her down in a way that makes her choke on a moan, desperate not to show that he has any effect on her. Her taking pleasure from him is one thing, but in her mind it’s important for him to know he’s not giving her anything.

“Shut up or I’ll shut you up,” she growls, gripping his jaw and pressing her thumb into the staples on his cheek until a trickle of blood mars the white of his war paint. He simply grins even wider, pressing towards her and into her grip.

“Like to see you try.” Slit grins, and Toast is more than willing to rise to that challenge.

In a heartbeat, Toast stands, removing one of the strips of fabric binding her groin and crushing it into a loose ball. She frees another and holds the two in her hands as she climbs back into his lap, only the thinnest wrapping and his own pants separating them. He regards the fabric curiously, but Toast distracts him by bringing her mouth down on his. Slit meets her halfway, their kiss desperate and hungry. It’s far too much teeth to be described as pleasant, a battle in its own right, but it’s what Toast needs. She breaks away after a moment, and as he chases her, she thrusts the balled up fabric into his mouth and secures it with the other strip.

“You don’t touch that,” Toast orders with a hiss as Slit glares at her something feral, “or I’ll stop what I’m doing.”

Slit’s hands go to untie the gag anyway, but Toast moves quicker. She grinds her hips in a long, slow movement, and Slit’s hands still. She smiles, repeating the action, even going as far as to drag her hands over his chest, nails leaving marks in his warpaint. He’s almost as pale underneath, the white mixture protecting them from the harsh sun.

She continues to grind on him, her hands mapping lower and lower, catching on scars and tracing ridges of muscles. He feels good under her touch; more than that, actually, he feels incredible. The strength, the tough skin, the marks of war days and bloody battles. Toast bites her lip, desire pulsing between her legs, and swallows thickly. Yes, a fight would have done, but in this moment she has no doubt this is what she was truly craving.

Toast’s fingers are light on the waistband of his pants, and she raises onto her knees only long enough to undo the clasps there and slide them down, with some help from Slit. He makes a deep, guttural noise, muffled by the gag, which causes Toast’s heart to race impossibly faster. She likes that noise, the edge of desperation, and the fact that he can’t talk back anymore.

Positioning herself lower on his thighs, Toast drops her gaze to his erection. It’s somewhat surprising to her, actually, that there’s no war paint there, but she supposes it makes sense. She’s never seen any pantsless warboys in the sun. Actually, she’s never seen any of them pantsless, except the few times she’s walked in on Capable and Nux, who seem to have little regard for where they end up when the mood takes them.

Well, Toast guesses she’s not one to judge. It’s not like they’re alone, here; if she listens past the thundering of her own heart and Slit’s little grunts, she can hear activity in the halls. She supposes anyone might walk in on them, and she finds she doesn’t particularly care. Toast ignores the world around them in favour of wrapping her hand around Slit’s cock, drawing a strangled noise from deep in his throat as she squeezes him.

Slit’s hands grip her hips tight, just shy of bruising, even though Toast wouldn’t mind the bruises. It makes her feel alive, bearing the marks of struggle. And besides, anything that mars their perfect skin had been outlawed before, such a simple thing as a bruise an act of rebellion. Toast pumps her fist along the considerable length of him and wonders if she can make him mark her with his fingertips, if she can push him past that edge of control.

Well, she knows one way to try. Toast raises onto her knees once more, sliding her thinnest loin wrapping to the side. She meets Slit’s eyes, hot and angry, and sighs as she sinks her own fingers into herself. It’s good, but not good enough. She holds herself aloft over him, drops her forehead to rest against his, and puts on a show as if this is all she wanted. To tease him, please herself, and leave.

Slit makes a furious noise around his gag, and his hands move. One of them grabs at her buttocks, and she’s sure that possessive grasp will leave a mark. The other curls between her thighs, and he shoves her hand out of the way to sink his own fingers into her. Toast cries out, raising her head and reaching out to brace herself on the wall, not caring in the slightest about the marks of her own slick her fingers leave there. Because yes, she had been using two fingers, and so does Slit, but his fingers are so much more than hers.

It stretches her, but not painfully. It’s incredibly good, even though he pumps his hand somewhat clumsily. His digits are strong and calloused, hands bread and formed on war, and she takes them with a moan. As she rocks back against him, he slides a third finger in, and Toast bites her lip against a whimper. His movements may not be the most polished, but it satiates her hunger somewhat, the feeling of being blessedly full, and of having someone else being the one filling her.

Toast finds herself making all sorts of needy little noises, breathy moans and whimpers as he twists his digits. She’s not ashamed, but she wants to hear him make some of the same; strangled around the gag. She wants him to try and curse, to tell her off, to moan. Toast heaves heavy breaths and shifts her weight, reaching down to pull his hand out of her. Slit makes another one of those feral, deprived growls, and Toast herself is none too happy with the loss of contact. 

She solves the situation quickly, however, reaching further down to hold Slit and guide him into her. The stretch that causes is definitely painful and tears sting her eyes, but Slit makes a strangled noise like she’s killing him, and it is oh so worth it. More than the pain, which she knows will subside, it fills that deep void within her. Toast moves down inch by inch, ever so slowly, thighs trembling and heart beating a wardrum. 

When she bottoms out against him, Toast takes a moment to adjust, breathing heavy and closing her eyes. Shockingly, Slit permits this, although if Toast is any judge of what the furious heaving of air through his nostrils means, he’s just as affected as her. She slowly opens her eyes as the burning turns into a gentle ache somewhat akin to the pleasure building within her. Slit’s eyes are on her, and she wonders if he’s looked away from her for a second yet. His gaze is desperate and violent, and resonates deep within Toast.

She begins to move, a small rock of her hips at first, and Slit makes another one of those aborted noises that Toast enjoys so much. So she moves more, rising up slightly and hissing at the drag of his flesh through her. She keeps her attention fixated on his face, watching his eyes flutter in pleasure. When she grinds her hips back down, he makes a noise somewhat like a whine, and it spikes pleasure straight to her throbbing center. Toast’s breath catches in her throat and she repeats the motion, getting a new noise and new enjoyment from it.

The more she moves, the more vocal Slit gets; or tries to, anyway. She’s sure that some of the sounds he makes would have been words, for the way he glares when the gag stops him. She always answers those with a roll of her hips that seems to affect him so much. It pools within her, the power she holds, mixing with the pleasure of the act itself. Toast finds her breath coming heavy, yet it seems she can’t bring in nearly enough oxygen at the same time.

She moans as Slit’s hands cup her ass, calloused palm lifting her and aiding her in her movements which she will admit, were becoming quite tiring. She doesn’t object to the help, wrapping her arms around his neck and leaning down to taste the salt on his jaw. He tastes of sweat and paint and blood; adrenaline made flesh, an oh what delightful flesh he is. Slit snaps his hips up into her at her action, and Toast cries out in pleasure.

“More.” The single word, gasped between shaky breaths, is the only one spoken in a long time, and it seems enough for Slit. He holds her in his strong grip and pounds into her, sending pleasure in near-painful spikes lancing through Toast. She loves it, every second of it, and it doesn’t even matter that she’s not in control anymore. 

Toast drops her head to rest on his shoulder, collapsing into his grasp, and listens to the little noises he makes deep in his throat. She matches them with her own full bodied moans when he hit a particularly good spot inside of her, when his fingers dig into her flesh so hard she can feel it even through the building haze of pleasure. Toast gives herself over entirely to the sensation, driven into her with reckless abandon.

It doesn’t take too long before the itchy heat in her gut uncoils, ripping through her like her own little Valhalla. Climax, the texts had called it, the cresting of a mountain. Toast feels as if she’s falling off of said mountain, though, pure exhilaration racing through her veins, body tensing hard. It comes in waves, as Slit continues to thrust within her, and she rides it in the purest form of ecstasy. She hears Slit make another one of those dying noises, in a distant part of her mind.

As her own climax begins to ease, Slit drops her into his lap with one last aborted thrust, and she feels him filling her deep inside. Breeding her, even though she knows there’s no way a warboy can truly breed. No, the night terrors and the sun burn that out of them, but it doesn’t mean their bodies don’t try. Toast doesn’t mind; in some way it feels almost right, hot sticky inside of her coating overworked muscles and easing the passage.

Toast heaves air back into her lungs, sweat swiftly cooling on her skin in an uncomfortable way. She calms her racing heart as Slit’s hands move to her back, surprisingly gentle, holding her against his chest. Holding her in place, perhaps, as the last drops of his seed spill inside of her, but it feels oddly good all the same. Toast luxuriates in it for a moment. Just a moment, however, because now that she’s not all hot brained, she remembers how important it is for him to remember she’s better than him.

With a groan, Toast extricates herself from his grasp, standing with the mildly revolting feeling of his softening erection slipping from her, and the seed he’d spilled following. Slit makes another little noise, confused and irritated, and she reaches out to untie his gag. He doesn’t immediately speak, which surprises her, but then again words aren’t exactly the easiest thing for her to form right now.

She uses the now ruined bindings to clean up the mess between her legs, not failing to note the way that Slit watches her with interest. She adjusts her one unspoiled - or perhaps, less spoiled is a more fair term - bandage and wrinkles her nose at the mess in her hand, wondering what to do with it. She can’t bring it back, because although she’s sure Capable would be delighted she did something other than fighting, Toast would rather die than sit through more awkward, well-intentioned conversations about breeding.

Toast comes up with a solution that amuses her to no end, and she steps forward to stand between Slit’s legs once more. She smirks, dropping the wadded up fabric on top of his still uncovered penis without ceremony, then turns away with a wave of her hand.

“Something to remember me by, warboy.”

If Slit says anything, Toast doesn’t hear. Suddenly, she wants nothing more than to find her own bed and have a nap. Well, never let it be said that the warboys were good for nothing in their new society.


End file.
